


oh it's not the kill (it's the thrill of the chase)

by BlackVultures



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Humor, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, M/M, Mission Fic, Multi, Mutual Pining, Pole Dancing, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-08-20 11:46:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16555178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackVultures/pseuds/BlackVultures
Summary: Beside him on the war room couch, Mac looked torn between laughing and—wait, was heblushing? Jack hadn’t seen that since they’d walked in on that group of naked nuns in Vatican City. “Guys, it’s not a big deal. MIT was pretty damn expensive even with scholarships, and Bozer had a friend who taught me some stuff and got me a job at the club she worked at.”“Well let’s hope those lessons pay off,” Matty said. “Mac, you’ll obviously be going in to replace our missing one, and find out what you can from the other dancers. Bozer—or should I sayBoozer—you’ll be putting those bartending skills that I’m sure you have to good use. Riley and Leanna will backstop you from the van. And Jack, you’re going to be a gentleman looking for a hot date. Emphasis on thegentleman.”Screw hallucinating and dying in the middle of a bombed-out field, Jack thought. This mission would be what killed him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everybody! This is my first fic in the MacGyver fandom, but I've already felt super welcomed by everyone over on Tumblr! I love the show and I love MacDalton (and all the great fics in the fandom, whether they're romantic or gen), but I wanted to write something "off-the-wall" that I hadn't seen before here, so hopefully I nailed that! Any mistakes are my own, although I have to thank [laverdersblues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonely_lovebird/pseuds/lavendersblues) for beta reading this for me! Check out her fics if you haven't already, she's a brilliant storyteller! A couple of quick notes: expect some more adult language than what appears on the show at some point, and there will also be smut later on in the fic (not exactly sure when yet, that's TBD). I'll post warnings at the beginnings of chapters as appropriate.
> 
> For context: This fic takes place at some nebulous time in Season 3, since Leanna's part of Phoenix and Bozer's had his "Boozer" moment.
> 
> Title is from "Knockin' At Your Back Door" by Deep Purple - and yes, that song is about EXACTLY what you think it's about!

Jack Dalton had heard a lot of screwball mission briefings in his time as a government operative, but this one took the cake. “Run that by me again, Matty. Real slow, so I’m sure I understand.”

The team was gathered in the war room as usual, but the rundown Matty had just given them was anything but. Still, she shot Jack an incredulous look when she heard his request. “Do you need hearing aids, Dalton? Or were you just not paying attention?”

Jack saw Mac smirk down at the paperclip he was reshaping out of the corner of his eye. Fucker.

Bozer raised his hand a little bit, like they were in elementary school instead of part of a highly-classified intelligence agency. “Uh, actually Matty, I wouldn’t mind hearing that again too… because it kinda sounded like you were sending us undercover to a strip club.”

Mac chimed in: “Actually, they don’t call them strip clubs anymore. I think they’re gentlemen’s clubs now.”

“Gold star for you, Blondie,” Matty said, tapping on the tablet in her hands to rearrange the information up on the big screen. “And more to the point, this is a club for men who like other men, and it was the last place Senator Dan Trubisky’s son was seen before his disappearance.” The senator’s son’s picture flashed up on screen, showing a handsome young man at a UCLA frat party. “The club has some female employees, but all the dancers are men, and in an interesting coincidence, one of those dancers went missing on the same night as Adam Trubisky.” Another picture, this one of a guy with a beard who was almost naked and mid-undulation against a stripper pole; a watermark indicated the photo was from the club’s website. “Mitch Sanderson. Working theory is they might’ve run off together.”

Riley frowned up at the big screen. “So the senator wants us to find his son instead of the cops because he—what, thinks his kid might be gay and he doesn’t want the press to find out?”

“I think he’s more concerned about his opponent using this as a way to strong-arm him out of the race,” Matty said. “And if his party loses even one seat, they’re done for.”

“What about the dancer?” Leanna asked. “Did anyone report him missing?”

Matty shook her head. “Nope, and it’s your job to find out where he went.”

“All right, I get it—house money says where we find one, we’ll get the other.” Jack clapped his hands together. “Now, who’s going incognito as the pole dancer? I don’t wanna brag, but I have some sweet moves I’ve been savin’ for a rainy day—”

“Slow your roll, Flashdance,” Matty interjected. And then, with a deliberateness that made Jack’s heart squeeze like a fist, she looked at Mac. “I think your partner’s skill set might come in handy here.”

Bozer raised his eyebrows. “How do you know about Mac’s, uh… extracurricular activities?”

Matty shugged nonchalantly. “Because I know everything?”

Wide-eyed, Jack stared at Mac, who looked completely unfazed, while Jack was like 90% sure he was dying in a bombed-out field somewhere and this was some kind of vivid end-of-life hallucination. He was torn between the desire to shake Mac and ask him why the hell this never came up in conversation, and the pressing need to think about something _besides_ Mac pole dancing before Jack wound up with an incredibly unfortunately-timed boner.

A slow smile spread across Riley’s face from behind her laptop, where she’d no doubt already started perusing info about their missing persons. “Wait, _Mac_ knows how to pole dance? How did we not know about this?”

“I mean, Jack clearly didn’t know either,” Leanna pointed out. “Look at his face.”

“My face?” Jack repeated, feeling up his own jaw without realizing what he was doing. When Leanna giggled at him, this brilliant comeback came out: “There’s nothing wrong with my face—what about your face, huh?”

Beside him on the war room couch, Mac looked torn between laughing and—wait, was he _blushing_? Jack hadn’t seen that since they’d walked in on that group of naked nuns in Vatican City. “Guys, it’s not a big deal. MIT was pretty damn expensive even with scholarships, and Bozer had a friend who taught me some stuff and got me a job at the club she worked at.”

“Well let’s hope those lessons pay off,” Matty said. “Mac, you’ll obviously be going in to replace our missing one, and find out what you can from the other dancers. Bozer—or should I say _Boozer_ —you’ll be putting those bartending skills that I’m sure you have to good use. Riley and Leanna will backstop you from the van. And Jack, you’re going to be a gentleman looking for a hot date. Emphasis on the _gentleman_.”

Screw hallucinating and dying in the middle of a bombed-out field, Jack thought. This mission would be what killed him.

 

~***~

 

They had to spread out the beginning of the op over an extra day so Mac and Bozer could both get “hired” at the club and get used to their duties, which meant an extra day of Jack sitting in the van with Riley and Leanna and slowly going insane.

“Jack, I swear if you don’t stop clicking that pen I’m going to shove it somewhere painful,” Riley snapped, at close to the twenty-fourth hour of fidgeting. “Mac’s _fine_.” She started to hoist her laptop out of her lap, and Jack caught a glimpse of the club’s interior security cameras before he looked away. “Do you wanna see?”

Jack waved her off, praying she didn’t notice the sweat beading at his temples. Jesus, he was pathetic. “No, no, I don’t need to see… that.”

Over the comms, there was the thump of feet hitting the floor, and Mac’s voice, slightly breathless: “Are you sure, Jack? I thought you loved sick tricks.”

“Yeah, on a skateboard!” Jack exclaimed, voice tight. “Not watching you spin around half-naked on a greased-up pole!”

Was it Jack’s imagination, or did Mac sound… a little hurt? “Okay, man. Whatever.”

Bozer cleared his throat. “You know you’ve gotta come in here when the place opens, right, Jack?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Jack plucked at his leather jacket, careful to make sure his gun was concealed; going in full or even half-cowboy had been shot down with one of those trademark stares of hers that made Jack feel like he was about to get kneecapped. He jumped in his seat when Leanna reached back to shut off his earpiece, and then killed hers and Riley’s. “Hey, what the hell?”

“You’re being a jerk, you know,” Leanna said. “To MacGyver, I mean. In fact, you’ve been acting weird ever since the briefing we had a couple days ago.”

“Of course I’m acting weird,” Jack responded, not liking one bit where this conversation was going. “A senator’s son is in the wind and this could be anything from a terrorist plot to a hate crime.” Belatedly, after replaying their last conversation in his head and realizing he had, in fact, sounded like an asshole but not really wanting to admit it: “And what do you mean I’m being a jerk to Mac? He’s not even here!”

 _No_ , a little voice in Jack’s head said. _He’s in that skanky building across the street, probably hanging upside-down by those legs of his in leather pants._

“Not helpful,” Jack muttered to himself, blinking when Riley snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I _said_ , you should just tell him already.” Riley’s dark eyes showed understanding, and a little bit of affection. “If it’s this obvious to the rest of us that you’re in love with him, I have no idea why he hasn’t figured it out.”

Jack felt everything from his neck to his back tense up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Mac’s like a brother to me.”

Leanna fixed him with a disbelieving look. “Oh yeah? Is that why you watch his ass when he’s not looking?”

Jack opened his mouth but nothing came out, and he stared at both girls for a moment before sighing and scrubbing his hand over his buzzed-down hair. “Look, there’s no way in hell that somebody like Mac would want anything more than what he’s already got me—” _and I’m not even sure why he wants that_ , he added mentally “—so can we just forget the last, I don’t know, minute and half ever happened?”

Riley’s lips pursed into a frown. “Fine. We won’t say anything to Mac, but for the record, I really think you should.”

Jack gave her the best smile he could manage, which wasn’t much. “Thanks, Riles.” He flicked his comm back on, and both Leanna and Riley did the same. The neon lights outside the club flickered on, the front door opened by a bouncer to admit those already in line to pay the cover charge. “And that’s my cue. See you guys in a while.”

 

~***~

 

It’d been a long time since Angus MacGyver had had a pole between his legs, but he was surprised at how easy it was to get back into the groove. Almost like riding a bicycle, except it was a lot dirtier, there was music blaring from speakers over his head, and strange men—and a few women—gave him money while he did it.

That and the tear-away leather pants. Mac was pretty sure he’d never seen anybody ride a bicycle in tear-away leather pants.

Right now he was backstage with the rest of the dancers who were slated to perform tonight, while out at the pole a barrel-chested man who’s stage name was Burly Bill spun around upside-down and threw his nipple tassels at the nearest interested party. Through a gap in the velour curtains Mac could see a slice of both the bar—where Bozer had his hands full making overpriced martinis—and the main entrance, where patrons shucked their coats and maybe used the ATM before checking out the entertainment.

Entertainment, Mac realized belatedly, that was going to include _him_ (well, his old college stage moniker, but still). And as if on some ironic cue, the next person to pay the bouncer and walk inside the club was Jack.

Jack, who looked insanely good in his leather biker jacket and black jeans. No sunglasses because it was dark out (and Jack was always complaining about douchebags who wore sunglasses inside or at night), but he’d buzzed down his hair and kept the stubble, which somehow achieved a rugged-yet-approachable air that Mac could never hope to pull off. Now if only Mac was cataloguing all these details because he was jealous of how slick Jack was, and not because he was hopelessly in love with the guy.

A throat cleared behind Mac. “Got your eye on someone?”

Mac half-turned to look at Harold Getty, stage name Harlequin, who was a tall drink of water clad mostly in Harley Quinn-themed body paint. He was the only dancer who’d introduced himself to Mac after he got hired, the others already in their own social groups. They were friendly enough, but Mac didn’t know half their real names, nor did he think he had a hope in hell of getting any information out of them.

Harlequin, on the other hand…

Mac put on his best coy smile. “And if I do?”

Harold smiled back, more reminiscent of the Joker than Harley Quinn—Christ, the guy had a lot of teeth. “Then I’d plan on putting on a really good show. Make sure he knows you’re here for him, and make him think he came here for you. Then invite him upstairs to one of the private rooms for a little fun.”

“Sound advice,” Mac mused. The private rooms on the second floor were the one area of the club he hadn’t been able to investigate himself or get a camera installed for Riley. “Anything I should worry about?”

Harold hesitated, smile dimming at the edges. “Well, as I’m sure you’ve heard by now, one of our dancers _did_ disappear a couple of days ago… and Mr. Stitch _did_ take someone up to a private room—but I’m sure they just ran off together.” He stepped up closer to Mac as Burly Bill came offstage and another dancer went on, meaning Harold would be next to perform and then Mac after him. “So, which one’s the lucky fella?”

It was Mac’s turn to hesitate, but only momentarily. He pointed at Jack. “That guy.”

“Oooh, so _handsome_! And those eyes—talk about smolder!” Harold fanned himself exaggeratedly, and Mac resisted the urge to kick him in the knee. “Looks like the take-charge type too, if you know what I mean.”

He knew too well what Harold meant. The number of times Mac had thought about Jack in a more than platonic way was a little embarrassing; thinking about what he’d be like in bed was off limits, except for those rare times when he knew he wouldn’t see Jack the next day. Like his partner had some kind of x-ray vision that would let him know Mac had fantasied about him the night before.

The dancer on the stage received his fair share of hoots and hollers before retreating behind the curtains. Mac forced himself to focus on the mission and not on his unrequited feelings (they _had_ to be unrequited, right?). “Looks like you’re up, Harold. Thanks for the tip about the private rooms.”

“Anything for you, dollface.” With that, Harold left, grabbing his giant prop hammer with “YOUR DICK HERE” written on it in fake blood on his way out. At least he was original.

More original than Mac, who’d gone with the timeless white-button down shirt and, yes, the tear-away leather pants. He double-checked with the DJ that his chosen track was next in the song queue, and then all he had left to do was wait.

And stare at Jack.

Crap.

Desperate for a distraction, Mac gave the backstage area a more thorough once-over than when he’d been shown around after his interview. Nothing of note, until a glint from between a couple of lighting wires trailing across the floor caught his eye. Using the edge of his shirtsleeve in an effort to preserve the evidence, Mac bent down and retrieved the shiny object; an abnormally large sewing needle, the sharp end coated in a thick layer of dried blood.

Something Harold said moments before came back to him: Mitch’s stage name was Mr. Stitch. Did that mean his costume included a needle like this one? As much as he would’ve liked to ponder that question, he didn’t have time. The thump of the bass in Harold’s song had changed tone, signaling his was close to the end of his performance.

Mac tapped his comm. “Riley? I’ve got some evidence from backstage.”

He could practically hear her perk up over the wireless connection. “Really? That’s great!”

“Yeah—problem is, I’m about to go out on stage.” Mac was already striding across the backstage area toward the bar. “I’m gonna pass it to Bozer and he’ll have to get it to you.”

“No problem, I can meet him at the back door,” Leanna volunteered. “I’m just glad you found something—sitting in this van is such a drag.”

“Says the girl who drives like Mario Andretti,” Bozer cut in, his tone teasing. He appeared exactly where Mac wanted him to; there was a gap between the curtains and the back wall of the bar that was so small they didn’t bother putting a bouncer there to guard it. Thankfully he’d had the forethought to put on a glove, so Mac could just drop the needle into his hand. “Yikes. Looks like somebody had a bad time.”

“Have to wonder if it was Mitch, or somebody else,” Mac said. Through the gap behind Bozer, he saw the stage lights go dark. “I’ve got to go.”

Bozer clapped him on the shoulder with his free hand. “Good luck, dude. I’ll get this to Leanna and Riley.”

Mac flashed him a grin and took off at a light jog back to his mark, narrowly avoiding getting clocked by Harold’s prop hammer as Harlequin sauntered by drenched in sweat. That would be Mac in a few minutes (minus the hammer), providing he didn’t have a spontaneous heart attack because his very male, very straight partner would be watching him spin around on a pole. And—Mac checked just to be sure—yep, he still had a pulse, so he was still in love with Jack.

No way would this end badly.

Putting on his trucker cap and sunglasses, Mac listened as the first beats of [“The Stroke” by Billy Squier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=69fPof-ZTnU) pounded out through the speakers. He slipped out on stage while it was still dark, looking dead ahead and definitely not anywhere in Jack’s direction. The first clash of cymbals sounded, the lights went up, and Mac climbed the pole.

He started to dance, and didn’t stop for a long while.

 

~***~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry for the delay on this chapter, but I was sick from Thanksgiving to about two days ago, first with food poisoning and then with a chest cold. Thank you all so much for your sweet comments on this story as well as the little MacDalton episode tag I wrote... I'm hopeful that George might come back to the show as a recurring actor, so we might see Jack at least a few times per season. What do you guys think? Let me know! I hope you enjoy chapter two, and look out for chapter three (hopefully) before Christmas! (And as always, a huge shout out to [lavendersblues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonely_lovebird/pseuds/lavendersblues) for the beta! She's awesome!

Remember how Jack thought this mission was going to kill him? Well, either Bozer slipped a little something extra into his drink or Jack was lying in state in a coffin somewhere, because there was no way in hell this could be real.

Nope, didn’t matter how hard he blinked—it didn’t erase the image of Mac up on that stage mere feet away from Jack, hanging in an upside-down crucifix pose and ripping off the legs of his leather pants, making them into booty shorts and revealing miles of tan skin. He’d already discarded the trucker cap and sunglasses he’d worn as he slunk out from behind the curtains. Now Mac was coated in a light sheen of sweat, button-down shirt open to reveal enviable abs that were being put to good use as he twisted and slithered around that goddamn pole like a snake to the beat of Billy Squier.

Jack forced himself to look somewhere else before he did something catastrophically stupid, like a.), jump onstage and molest his partner or b.), cover Mac’s mostly-naked body with his jacket so these losers would stop drooling over him like he was a cut of steak. Jack decided to ignore the fact that he was currently one of those drooling losers and either option sounded inappropriate for their relationship and possessive in a way that he didn’t want to examine. It was no secret that Mac was attractive—hell, Jack told the kid that when he could do it in ways that didn’t sound like come-ons from an old man. Seeing him use it like this was something else, though, each spin and dive on the pole more impossible than the last, eliciting cheers and hoots from the audience along with piles of cash.

Shit, the _audience_! Jack was supposed to be looking around to see if anybody was watching Mac with nefarious intent. Which, if Jack was being realistic, probably accounted for half the people in the crowd, but less like somebody who wanted to fuck Mac (Jack _did_ _not_ shudder like a teenager when he had that thought) and more like someone who’d maybe done something bad to Senator Trubisky’s kid and/or the dancer from the club.

Scanning the room in between flashes from the house lights, Jack didn’t see anything strange on his first pass. On the second pass, one guy caught his attention.

_Creep_ , Jack’s gut said immediately. Probably around Mac’s age but not nearly as lithe, he was the only one besides Jack (until now) who hadn’t looked away from the stage to sip his drink or reach for his wallet. He wore a checkered shirt and an honest-to-God pocket protector and looked like he’d just wandered in from a convention for used car salesmen, but the slimy grin on his face as he watched Mac dance was enough to make Jack want to slam his head into a table.

Mercifully, the song ended, and Mac went from doing some impossible pose on the pole that made him look like Superman (if Superman moonlighted as a stripper) to collecting the ones and fives tossed his way during his routine and clearing off the stage for the next dancer. He caught Jack’s eye and made a little head-jerk that said _meet me by the bar_ , and then disappeared behind the velvet curtains.

The bar was popular between dancers, so Jack had to mutter excuse me a lot and shoulder his way between some horny semi-drunks in plaid and a bachelorette party. He didn’t have to wait long for Mac, since he came loping out from the backstage area a minute later fully clothed. That damn white dress shirt was still practically see-through, but at least the leather pants appeared to be whole. With the amount of people around they had to squeeze close together in order to talk without being overheard; this put them almost chest-to-chest in the corner of the room next to a potted plant.

Mac smelled like cologne and sweat and something distinctly _him_. Jack had to do everything in his power to not just grab him and run, especially with the multiple sets of eyes he felt watching them. “Hey, Mac. That was, uh… really something.”

Mac smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes. That was the smile he usually reserved for arms dealers and terrorists, and it stung a little for Jack to see it directed at him. “Big praise coming from the guy who didn’t want to see me spinning on a greased-up pole.”

Jack rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, man, that was out of line. All that waiting around was getting to me.” A half-truth, but one he couldn’t avoid; Mac’s expression a little softened at the admission. “So, did you find out anything about the missing dancer?”

“Yeah, actually.” Mac told him about the abnormally large sewing needle and the blood. “Hopefully once somebody at the lab looks at it we’ll get a lead.” He glanced out toward the audience, shifting on the balls of his feet. “How about you? See anybody suspicious?”

“Dude, _suspicious_ accounts for, like, two-thirds of the people in here,” Jack said. “But Pocket Protector over there was watching you nonstop, and now he’s yammering into his phone and running out of here like his ass is on fire.” He tapped his comm. “Hey, Riles? There’s a dorky-looking guy coming your way out the front door on a cell phone—mind following him and seeing where he goes?”

“Sure, no problem,” Riley said, the van roaring to life over the wireless connection. “What are you guys gonna do?”

“ _We_ have a date with a private room,” Mac said, and then he… slid his hand down Jack’s arm? And slid their fingers together?

Oh.

Oh _no_.

 

~***~

 

In all the years they’d worked together, Mac had never seen Jack as flustered as he was right now. He’d watched his partner get hit on by women, men, and every configuration of human in between, and do his fair share of flirting with any gender in return without batting an eye. But for some reason, the holding hands with Mac was enough to make a patchy red flush spread from Jack’s cheeks to his neck. His hand was calloused and slightly larger than Mac’s own, and even though their hands touched a lot—when Jack forked over a cell phone or sunglasses for Mac to destroy, in a rental car when they both reached for a cup of coffee, or any of the times where one of them almost died—the touch sent sparks tingling up Mac’s arm.

Despite his obvious discomfort, Jack didn’t hesitate to play along, squeezing Mac’s hand and taking a half-step closer, so they were almost nose-to-nose. “Okay, Mac, what’s the plan?”

For a half-second, Mac forgot what the hell he was going to say, too entranced by the brown warmth of Jack’s eyes. _Get it together, Blondie_ , said a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Matty, and he cleared his throat. “We need to get upstairs. There’s, uh, private rooms up there I wasn’t able to check out. Could be another clue.”

“Could be,” Jack agreed. “Riley, you’re still going through the footage from the night Trubisky disappeared, right? Does it look like he or Mitch went upstairs?”

The sound of a keyboard clicking took over the comms for a moment. “Actually, they both went upstairs. Together.”

“Like _together_ together,” Leanna added. “I think the only reason the bouncer let them up there is because Mitch already had his hand down Trubisky’s pants.”

Was it Mac’s imagination, or had Jack started to sweat? Blowing out a harsh breath, Mac said lowly, “Look, man, I know I’m not the ideal partner for this sort of thing—”

Jack blinked at him like he’d started speaking Austrian spontaneously. “What?”

Mac rolled his eyes to cover up the way his chest was aching. He used his grip on Jack’s hand to pull him toward the stairs. “Let’s just get through this, okay?”

“You’re gonna have to do more than get through it,” Bozer advised from behind the bar, ice clinking against glass behind his words. He’d made good time delivering the needle to the van before the girls took off after Pocket Protector. “That bouncer looks like he’s seen some shit. You’ll have to be convincing.”

Mac’s free hand clenched into a fist, nails biting into the skin of his palm. “I can do convincing,” he said.

Before he could lose his nerve, he turned around, pushed Jack against the nearest wall, and kissed him. Jack’s whole body tensed like a coiled spring—out of shock or disgust, Mac couldn’t tell, and although he told himself he didn’t care which it was, the thought that it was the second option made him feel sick.

_Play along, dammit_ , Mac thought fiercely, and promptly felt his knees go weak when Jack started to kiss back. Jack released his death grip on Mac’s hand in favor of sliding both of those big, rough hands around Mac’s waist, fingers grazing over the skin of his hips where the bottom of his shirt didn’t quite meet his pants. Gripping the front of Jack’s coat in a desperate attempt to stay upright, Mac couldn’t help but make a pathetic little noise when Jack’s tongue swiped at the seam of his lips, and it would’ve been silly not to let him in—it wasn’t like this was going to happen again, so he might as well enjoy it.

“Uh, guys?” Bozer said in their ears, doing his best to sound professional despite the fact that he clearly wanted to laugh. “Pretty sure the bouncer thinks you really want that private room. I’ll keep an eye on things down here.”

Mac forced himself to pull away, not able to meet Jack’s eyes as they both caught their breath. “You good?”

Jack made a strangled sound, half-amused, half… something Mac couldn’t place, but he couldn’t make himself look to read the emotion on his partner’s face. “Never better.”

They flirted and stumbled their way past the bouncer and up a nondescript staircase to an even more boring oatmeal-colored hallway. Compared to the club’s main floor and all its raunchiness, the second level looked more like a Motel 6 in the Midwest somewhere. But despite its vanilla appearance, the evidence of its purpose was clear from the five closed doors and the moaning going on behind them. A sixth room at the end of the hall had an open door and appeared to be unoccupied, and one other door had a placard on it that announced it as an office.

“Think we’ve got a problem, Mac,” Jack said, lurking just behind Mac’s shoulder. “We’ve got no idea which room Trubisky and Mitch used—how are we gonna search them all with all these people up here?”

Mac took a deep breath and forced himself into a different headspace; not the one that was secretly in love with Jack, but the one that could make something out of nothing in the worst situations. “Bozer, I need you to find a fire alarm down there and pull it. Leave with everybody else—we’ll hide up here and then search the rooms before the fire department gets here.”

“I want to go on record as thinking this is a terrible plan,” Bozer said, but a few seconds later every alarm in the building started blaring, red emergency lights flaring on near the ceiling. Downstairs the music cut out, and a murmur of panic went up in its place. “I’ll get outside and see if I can meet up with Riley and Leanna—good luck.”

Jack and Mac ducked into the unoccupied room, waiting behind the door until everyone in the other rooms stumbled out and down the stairs in various stages of undress, the stench of booze and sex following them out of sight. While Jack kept a lookout, Mac went and collected some supplies from the office after picking the lock on the door.

When he came back with a flashlight, a roll of scotch tape, and a couple of different colored Sharpie markers, Jack looked less than impressed. “Okay, Office Depot, how the hell is that gonna help us?”

“Someone’s grumpy,” Mac noted, and had a sinking feeling he knew why. Carefully, he applied enough tape to cover the lens of the flashlight, and then colored over the tape with the red Sharpie. He put more tape on and repeated the coloring, this time with the blue marker. He turned the flashlight on and smiled when the light that shone through the tape was violet. “It’s gonna help us by letting me make a black-light. A pretty primitive one, but it should let me see if there’s old blood in any of these rooms.”

“You’re gonna see some other stuff you might not want to,” Jack pointed out, as they both began searching around the first room, shifting around furniture and kicking at discarded blankets. “Better make sure it’s blood and not… you know, something else.”

Mac made a face. “I want to think of a witty rejoinder, but I just spent five minutes crawling around on the floor in my underwear—I don’t think I’ve got much room to insult somebody’s come-stained ceiling.”

“Hey, hey,” Jack said, and the shift in the tone of his voice to something softer was enough to get Mac to look over. “For the record, I didn’t have a problem with you going out there and shaking what your momma gave you—”

“Dude, please don’t bring up my mom while we’re in a strip club.”

“Sorry. Point is, you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of—far from it, actually.” Before Mac could puzzle out what Jack meant by that, he continued: “I was being an old stick in the mud back in the van, and I’m sorry, okay?”

Mac took in Jack’s semi-pleading expression and sighed, shaking his head. “We’re good, man. No worries.” Something caught Mac’s attention out of the corner of his eye, and he turned a half-step, aiming his flashlight toward the heavy curtains surrounding the window next to the bed. “Jack? Come look at this.”

“Guys, how’s it going? Did you find anything?” Riley’s voice asked over the comms. “Leanna and I tailed Pocket Protector like you asked, but all he did was stop at a 7-Eleven. I’m running his face now to see if I can get a cell number and figure out who he called.”

“Good work,” Mac said absently, too busy studying the bloody handprint on the window frame, fluorescing white under the beam from his makeshift black-light. “Does this look like—”

“Like the thumb’s facing the wrong way for this to be from somebody climbing in? Yeah.” Jack pointed to some divots in the wood at the edge of the handprint. “See those? Claw marks, from somebody’s nails. Whoever left this got dragged out of here, Mac.”

Mac took his own thumbnail and chipped at the edge of the bloody handprint. A chunk came away with some effort, but it didn’t flake at his touch. “Someone must’ve missed this when they cleaned up the room because it was behind the curtain. It’s been dry for a while, but not that long—a few days, maybe?”

“That matches our timeline,” Jack said, and then his head tilted. Before Mac could ask what was wrong, he held up a hand for quiet, the other one reaching for his gun.

An instant later, the room seemed to ignite. Three stun grenades had rolled into the room via the door they’d left open, and their simultaneous detonation was enough to send Mac reeling, temporarily blind and deaf despite previous experience in similar scenarios. He stumbled, running knee-first into the bedside table and falling on his ass—which turned out to be a good thing, because it gave Jack room to take a couple of blind potshots at the armor-clad men with very big guns who followed the stun grenades into the room.

Mac felt more than heard or saw them take Jack down. He tried to struggle to his feet and help, but instead took the butt of a rifle to the face and was back on the ground again—only this time he wasn’t awake to hit the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! You might have noticed a rating change to this fic from E to M, and here's why: due to the semi-traumatic nature of the beginning of this final chapter I decided it would be kinda unrealistic for me to write Mac and Jack boning explicitly like they did at the end of my coda fic (which you should check out if you haven't read it). So instead I went with the classic "fade to black" option as an ending, but I promise the boys get together and the mystery gets solved! I have some (extremely) late Christmas gift fics in the works for [lavendersblues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonely_lovebird/pseuds/lavendersblues) and [blackrose1002](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackrose1002/pseuds/blackrose1002) that you guys can look forward to if you like my work! Enjoy the conclusion to this fic!

Mac woke slowly, sound returning to him first—the rasp of his own breathing, a slight ringing in his ears from the blow to the head he could only muzzily remember—before his other senses made an appearance. When he was able to pry his eyes open he slammed them shut again against the glare of fluorescent lights, getting only a glimpse of the situation. He was lying on his back, and the room he was in appeared to be mostly tile and grime, like an old bathroom. His body felt heavy, like his muscles were made of sand, and every thought required substantial effort.

Conclusion: he’d been whacked over the head in the private room at the strip club and then drugged with something.

The second time Mac opened his eyes it wasn’t as painful, but what he saw made panic flare at the base of his brain. He wasn’t so much lying on something as he was lying in it, and that something was a porcelain bathtub filled to the brim with ice. And that grime on the tiled walls? That was old blood, streaked and faded by the bleach Mac felt stinging his nose, but there all the same.

Now that he was conscious, his naked body took note of the cold generated by the ice and started shivering accordingly. Clenching his molars together, Mac took stock of the rest of the bathroom; there was a metallic gleam of some kind in the blind spot made by the wall of the tub and a toilet and a sink directly opposite his location. Over the sink was a medicine cabinet fronted by a broken mirror, and to the side was a door that was probably locked. Even if it wasn’t, he didn’t think he could muster the strength to move much thanks to the sedative he’d been given.

Just lifting his arms enough to check for injection marks was difficult (there were none, which meant chloroform), but at least when he managed to dig his hands under the ice cubes and feel his torso there was no sign of incisions. He leaned toward the edge of the tub to see the gleaming thing on the floor. An instrument tray, fully loaded with scalpels, spreaders, and a bone saw. He looked away, fear curdling in his stomach, and he wondered now where Jack was—what if they’d already—

“Stop it,” Mac whispered, the molasses-feeling in his mind clearing as his adrenaline started to race. “Stop it and _think_.”

The idea of Jack in the same situation or worse was the motivation he needed to reach down and grab the biggest scalpel off the tray. He clenched his fingers as tight as he could around it before slipping his arms back under the ice, concealing the instrument from sight. He couldn’t move much, so this was the next best thing. Straining his ears, Mac heard voices murmuring a room or two away; they sounded male, and he realized with a start that one of them was getting closer to his position.

He had one shot at this—if he dropped the scalpel or missed his target, he was as good as dead. Double-checking that the scalpel was still tight in the bloodless grip of his hand, Mac leaned his head back against the lip of the tub and shut his eyes, pretending he was still unconscious. He forced himself not to flinch as the lock on the bathroom door snapped open and heavy, booted footsteps made their way toward the bathtub.

Mac tensed under the ice, and when a shadow blocked out the light from the overhead fluorescents, he struck. Eyes snapping open, Mac surged up out of the tub, mustering all the strength he had to bring himself to his knees and drive the scalpel into the throat of the man standing over him.

The man—a middle-aged Chinese guy dressed in a head-to-toe disposable jumpsuit—made a retching sound that Mac quickly covered by slapping his free hand over his mouth and using his grip on the scalpel to drive him down on to the floor. Shuddering with cold and the particular adrenaline that came with killing someone, Mac got out of the tub and crouched over Jumpsuit’s prone form, yanking the scalpel free and using it to slash his throat. Blood sprayed on the floor and the tan skin of Mac’s legs, sticky and warm, but he was preoccupied with listening to see if anyone had heard the commotion in the bathroom.

No more footsteps—a good sign. Jumpsuit was dead underneath him, glassy eyes staring at the ceiling, and Mac set the scalpel aside momentarily in favor of stripping the jumpsuit off his corpse and putting it on. Not ideal attire considering the guy had been wearing it to protect himself while harvesting Mac’s organs, but at least he wasn’t naked anymore.

Mac navigated the blood-coated floor with bare feet until he put his back to the wall next to the door. The drugs were fading from his system, and he could feel his pulse hammering at his temples as he adjusted his grip on the scalpel yet again, his other hand reaching for the doorknob. In one motion, Mac opened the door and raised the scalpel, ready to strike if someone was waiting silently on the other side.

Someone _was_ on the other side, it was just the last person he was expecting.

Jack grabbed Mac’s wrist, stopping the scalpel’s downward arc, his other hand pushing at Mac’s chest to get him to back up. As soon as he could shut the door behind himself, Jack yanked Mac into a rough hug, whispering, “Jesus Christ, Mac, I thought—”

“I know, me too,” Mac replied, just as quiet, breathing in his partner’s smell and not giving a shit that there was a body less than a foot away. He pulled back enough to look at Jack’s face—he sported a nasty black eye and a large bruise near his mouth. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” Jack said, waving a dismissive hand. He looked beyond Mac’s shoulder at the bathtub, and his eyes widened before narrowing. “What the hell is that?” His gaze tracked down to Mac’s chest, which was obviously naked under his borrowed jumpsuit. “Were you—?”

Mac nodded tightly, concentrating on the weight of Jack’s hands on his shoulders to keep himself steady. “Pretty sure the guy I killed wasn’t coming in here to see if I was enjoying the spa.” He gestured toward Jack’s face, scalpel still in hand. “I take it these guys aren’t used to keeping prisoners who aren’t drugged in bathtubs full of ice?”

“Nah, they roughed me up a little and tied me to a chair in the bedroom down the hall. My Mandarin’s a little rusty, but I’m pretty sure they were talking about Senator Trubisky’s kid.”

“I was afraid of that. Any idea what they did to him?”

“That’s the good news,” Jack said. “I think he’s down in the basement and they’re planning on using him as a bargaining chip for something. Bad news is, they were _only_ talking about Adam… so part of me tends to think Mitch Sanderson might’ve been in that tub before you.”

Mac ran a hand through his hair and made a face when he realized it was still covered in blood. “Shit.” He glanced down at the very professional set of surgical tools on the floor and started to put the pieces together. “This is a gang of Chinese organ traffickers operating in the United States. They pick off people they think nobody will miss… like a pole dancer. Dancers are always in good shape, and they’re usually fairly young. As long as they don’t have any underlying health issues, they’re the perfect people to steal organs from for the Black Market.”

Jack nodded along with what Mac was saying and picked up the thread: “But when they decided to take Sanderson they got more than they bargained for and wound up with a senator’s kid. I could buy this, but there’s one problem—who paid for those goons in the body armor that snatched us? Because that was a professional op if I’ve ever seen one, and from what I can tell none of these guys are ex-military.”

“Probably a local outfit hired off the internet,” Mac said. “The traffickers are fine with gutting someone who’s drugged and helpless, but they’ve got nothing to do with the actual kidnapping.” He paused, eyes flicking back and forth as he thought through next steps, absently holding out the scalpel for Jack to take. “How sure are you that Trubisky’s in the basement?”

“Eighty-twenty? Like I said, they were talking about him in Mandarin and then there was some screaming from the basement, but that was definitely English.” Jack took the scalpel when Mac offered it, eyebrows raised. “You don’t want this?”

“It’s the best weapon we have—better for you to have it.” Mac slipped by Jack and over to the medicine cabinet, ignoring his severed reflection in the broken mirror in favor of opening it. When he saw the contents, “Besides, I’ve got something else in mind for me.”

 

~***~

 

About twenty minutes later, Mac and Jack watched from the hood of an LAPD cruiser as Adam Trubisky was hauled away in an ambulance and the last of the Chinese organ traffickers were remanded into federal custody. Behind them, the house the organ dealers had been squatting in burned to the studs, LAFD not even bothering to try and put it out since the chemical fire Mac had started was so potent; instead, they just made sure it wouldn’t spread to the neighboring structures.

“So it turns out the nerd with the pocket protector was hired help for the organ traffickers,” Riley said. She and Leanna leaned against the bumper of the stakeout van while Bozer talked to Matty on his phone. “He worked like a middleman, calling them up when he saw somebody at the club that met their criteria.”

“Which was basically what you guys thought it was,” Leanna added, counting traits on her fingers. “Young, healthy, and in good shape.”

“I’m glad we were able to shut them down,” Mac said. He scratched his chest through the dead man’s jumpsuit, the cheap material itchy against his skin, and thought of poor Mitch Sanderson. “I just wish we’d been able to do it sooner.”

“Hey, you all did a great job tonight,” Matty’s voice said as Bozer approached, speakerphone turned on. “And Dalton, you managed to not start a fistfight in a bar while you were on an op. Color me proud.”

“Tried my best, boss lady.” Jack sounded casual but he looked pleased by the unexpected praise. “But it was Mac who did all the heavy lifting—you sure you’re okay after getting chloroformed?”

Mac waved him off, hoping the semi-darkness of the street would hide the flush Jack’s concern brought to his cheeks. “I’ll be fine.” He winced a little, trying to straighten out a crick in his back. “Some of my joints might not be, though. Slamming yourself on a stage like that looks a lot cooler than it feels.”

“Well, we were thinking about catching some dinner and drinks,” Riley said. “But if you’re not up for it, Mac—”

“I’ll take him home,” Jack volunteered, and why did he have to say it _that_ way and make Mac start sweating in this godawful jumpsuit? “You kids go have fun.”

And home they went, in a car Matty sent to pick them up. Mac wasn’t ashamed to say he zoned out for most of the ride back to his house, watching the lights pass by his window and trying his hardest not to pass out or barf. Despite what he’d said to the others, he really felt shitty, and it was comforting to have Jack’s familiar warmth in the seat next to him, making small talk with the driver about football and barbecue so Mac didn’t have to.

Mac didn’t have his keys on him—they were with his street clothes in a locker in the strip club—so Jack unlocked the door, insisting on clearing the house before he let Mac leave the entryway. Normally Mac would’ve rolled his eyes, but he could count on both hands now the number of times someone had shown up unexpectedly in his house, and the last thing he wanted was to have some old enemy—or worse, his _father_ —see him like this.

“Hey, we’re good,” Jack said, deliberately quiet, picking up on the headache Mac had based how he was squinting in the light. “You want me to help you to bed?”

“Shower first,” Mac replied, scrunching up his nose as he realized exactly how terrible he smelled, like blood and body odor and the sticky sour stench of old sex. “If I go to sleep like this I’ll have to bleach my bedroom.”

Jack held up his hands. “Fair enough.” He followed Mac into the bathroom and leaned against the sink, which wasn’t strange considering the amount of times they’d seen each other naked, but Mac almost slipped and fell down in the shower when Jack asked, “So what was up with that kiss, huh? Most commitment to a bit I’ve seen out of you in a while.”

Swallowing hard and loosening his death grip on the shower curtain, Mac hesitated before answering. “Just trying to convince the bouncer, Jack. It wasn’t real.”

“Uh-huh,” Jack said, in a tone that suggested he knew Mac was lying his ass off. There was a pause, the only noise running water, and then, quietly, “But what if I wanted it to be real?”

Mac pulled the shower curtain back enough to look at his partner, flicking his wet hair out of his eyes. “Now I _know_ you’re fucking with me—seriously?”

“Serious as a heart attack.” Jack pushed off the sink and took a couple steps forward, until the steam trailing out of the shower could envelope him too. “But you need to understand something—this has _nothing_ to do with seeing you in tear-away pants, or watching you work that pole. I was completely gone for you years ago, Mac.”

Mac smiled, dimples and all. “… It must have _something_ to do with seeing me in tear-away pants.”

Jack snorted. “Okay, maybe a little.” He reached up and pushed the errant damp hair out of Mac’s face for him. “Think maybe I could get a do-over on that kiss in the strip club?”

Mac’s smile stretched to a grin as he pulled Jack in. “I think that can be arranged.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liked this fic? Well, I wrote a book! Search for "Stitches Samantha Simard" on Amazon (Kindle and paperback) or Barnes & Noble (paperback or hardcover) and pick up a copy of my debut LGBT mystery novel! My Tumblr is thesammykinz.tumblr.com if you want to keep up with me! :)


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